


oh lord, we're not in kansas anymore

by wolfchester



Series: for you i have so many words [4]
Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: F/M, adventures in san fran woo woop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 21:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16841041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfchester/pseuds/wolfchester
Summary: it's tyra's birthday and there's a surprise at her front door.alternatively titled: Adventures of Tim & Tyra in San Francisco.





	oh lord, we're not in kansas anymore

**Author's Note:**

> another one for ya folks. follow me on tumblr @buckebarns

* * *

_You whisper "come on over" cause you're two drinks in_

_But in the morning, I will say goodbye again_

_Think we'll never fall into the jealous game?_

_The streets all flood with blood of those who felt the same_

* * *

If anyone asks Tyra Collette how she’s doing in San Francisco, she’ll say she’s doing just fine. She’s got a lovely apartment overlooking the Bay, a job at a law firm that pays pretty well, and she’s just graduated from USF with a double degree in law and psychology. She has everything she ever _dreamed_ , and nothing could ever be better.

So what if she’s a little lonely? So what if the girls she works with hate her guts, and the only person she feels like she trusts in this city is the postman who always delivers her mail on time? So what if Mindy only calls every month or so now because she’s busy with her own family? Tyra’s got her dream come true and she didn’t need anybody to hold her hand while she was reaching for the stars.

It doesn’t even matter that she keeps an old photograph in her wallet of her and Tim in happier days. It doesn’t matter that sometimes she looks at it on cold San Francisco winter nights and wishes to feel his arms around her again. She hasn’t heard from him in three years, not since that drunk voicemail he left her. (She still hasn’t deleted it.)

Tyra knows she needs to move on, and she has. She’s been on dates with boys she met at her classes, and they’re all intelligent and passionate and handsome and likely to earn a lot of money when they graduate. But their hands are soft and smooth, no calluses, telling her they’ve never had a hard day of work in their lives.

She knows it’s stupid, but she ends up comparing every man with Tim Riggins.

 _Tim would have smiled at that comment,_ she thinks when she shares dinner with Fletcher, an insurance broker. _Tim wouldn’t be so serious all the time._

 _Tim wouldn’t have been so sensitive,_ she thinks after sleeping with a young man whose name she doesn’t know but who has a really great beard. _He wouldn’t have been so careful with me, passionate in a good way._

Tyra beats herself up about it. She doesn’t think about Tim everyday, or every week for that matter. But something will remind her of them, or her mom will call and mention in passing that Tim’s opened up his own bar in Dillon now. And she’ll clench her eyes shut and try not to cry because _you’re not a fuckin’ teenager anymore, Collette!_

_Pull yourself together._

* * *

It’s a Wednesday morning in July and it just so happens to be the morning of Tyra’s 24th birthday.

Twenty-four years old.

It’s hard for her to believe that it’s already been that long. Six years in San Francisco, and now she’s got a job, a legitimate college degree she worked fucking hard for, a _life_.

She’s in the kitchen, making herself a coffee, when the doorbell rings.

Tyra sighs, putting down the cup and making her way to the door, calling out “Alright, I’m coming!” when the bell rings again. _Perfect timing,_ she thinks as she unlocks the door, _now my drink’s gonna be cold. Great._

Finally, the door swings open.

“Tim?”

He smiles shyly, like a little boy caught pulling the cat’s tail. “Hey, Collette.”

She stares at him for a few moments. Tries to figure out if he’s just a hallucination because she hasn’t had her morning coffee yet, or if he’s actually standing on her doorstep with a duffel bag in tow. “What are you-”

“Happy birthday,” he says, shrugging his shoulders and pushing the hair out of his face. “I just- I wanted to, uh, I wanted to see you. On your birthday. To say happy birthday. I just-” he takes a deep breath and rubs his face with his hands before looking back over at her. “I mean- hi, Tyra. Long time, no see?”

She squints her eyes at the boy - no, _man_ , really - and frowns. “Yeah, ‘long time, no see’, Riggins. It’s been six fucking years.”

His shoulder drop and he looks down at the pavement. “I- I tried to call you, but I was always busy and I figured you were busy, too, and when you left you made it clear you were going for good, so.

Tyra squints a little harder and leans against the doorframe, arms crosses. “Why’re you here, Tim?”

“I told you. I wanted to say happy birthda-”

“No, Tim, I mean why the _fuck_ are you _here_?” she says, cutting him off.

He sighs and puts his hands in his pockets. “I missed you,” he whispered, talking to the ground. “I needed to see you.”

“You could’ve called.”

“Yeah. But it wouldn’t be the same.”

“You could’ve come sooner.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

“What makes you think I want to see you now?”

He looks so hurt at that comment that she almost regrets it, almost tries to apologise and takes it back. But then remembers that it’s been _six years_ and he hadn’t _once_ given her any sign that he ever wanted to see her again. Remembers all the pain that he’s caused her over the years. Remembers cold evenings spent by the phone, waiting, _hoping_ , that he would call.

“I don’t know, Tyra. I don’t know. I just- I got into the truck and started drivin’ and I didn’t really know where I was goin’ and then I ended up here.” Before she can ask, he pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. “Mindy gave me your address,” he says, handing the paper over.

“Did Mindy tell you to come here?” she asks, eyebrow raised and looking at him over the top of the paper.

“No,” he replies. “Like I said, I started drivin’ and then I got to the California state border and I remembered you were here and so I called Mindy and she told me where you lived. I hope that’s not...like, a ‘break of privacy’ or whatever…”

She sighs and crumples the paper up in her hands before giving it back to him. “It’s fine. It’s not. Well, it kinda is, but, whatever. I just wasn’t expecting you. Ever.”

They stand there for a moment, just staring at each other, trying to figure out what in the hell is going on. The difference between them is glaringly obvious. Tim in his faded flannel shirt, worn out jeans, boots, greasy hair. Still looking like he’s eighteen and a low-level alcoholic, carefree and stupid. Like, stupid enough to drive two whole fucking days to see an ex-girlfriend he hasn’t contacted in six years. In contrast, Tyra is dressed in designer jeans and a clean white button-down shirt, nude pumps on her feet, hair perfectly styled, standing in an apartment bigger than any house she’s ever lived in. She almost wants to laugh. And cry. And something in her also wants to reach out and hug Tim Riggins and see if he still smells like home.

“You, uh, you gonna let me in?” Tim asks.

She says nothing but opens the door a little wider to let him walk inside. Watches his eyes go wide as he examines the apartment.

“It’s nice, huh?” she says with a faint grin. Tim nods and places his bag down on the wooden floor.

“You’ve been working a lot? To be able to afford this?” He gestures to the white leather couch, the tiger print throw rug, the fireplace with candles adorning its mantle.

She smiles. “Yeah. I was an intern while I was studying but now I’m an associate at Simpson & Western down the road.”

“Law?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” He grins. “Figured.”

She tilts her head and narrows her eyes, hands on hips. “What do you mean by that?” she asks, a faint smile on her lips.

He shrugs and smirks. “Student pres senior year, always bossing me around, arguing with everyone...it’s a good fit.”

She ducks her head, shakes her head, and grins. “You’re an idiot.” He laughs. “Coffee?”

A few minutes later and they’re both sitting at Tyra’s kitchen table, drinking coffee and nibbling on some cookies she had in her cupboard.

“What about you, Tim?” she asks. “What’re you doing now?”

He sips his drink and clears his throat. “I tried college for a bit but that didn’t work out. Helped Billy fix up houses for a while then got a job at Buddy’s. Finally saved enough to buy that land I always said I would. Started buildin’ a house.” He grins. “It’s nice, Tyra. You’d like it.”

“Maybe I would,” she says cryptically, taking a swig of her coffee and wincing slightly at the pleasant burn.

It’s silent for a while, but it’s a cozy kind of quiet. Where two people know each other so well, they don’t have to try to be anything they’re not. They don’t have to try to fill the silence with some kind of noise, like “I’m here, look at me!” Tyra and Tim just sit there, enjoying each other’s company and trying to figure out what went wrong.

“So, it’s your birthday, huh?” Tim grins. “The big two-four. Got any plans?’

“I did until you showed up,” she says. “Plans that involved ordering takeout and watching a few episodes of Parks and Recreation. And drinking a lot of wine. A normal Friday, I guess.”

It’s supposed to be a joke but Tim can’t help but see the sadness, the loneliness, in her words. It makes him want to do something crazy, something stupid, something _fun_ \- to make her birthday a great one. Not just another Friday night.

“Let’s go out.”

She frowns. “What?”

“I said: ‘Let’s go out.’ Dinner, dancin’, you know.” He sees her hesitance and grins wide, reaching across the table to pull on her arm like a child to its mother. “ _C’mon_ , Collette, lighten up. It’ll be fun.”

“It’s ten o’clock in the morning, Riggins.”

“So what? We’ll do something else before dinner. You can show me the city, or whatever. Never been to California before.” She’s still unsure so he makes that hilarious puppy-dog face he knows she loved and laughed at when they were teenagers. “I promise I won’t do anything remotely stupid.”

She smiles, slowly and surely. “Why not?”

“That’s my girl,” he says, standing up and making his way to the front door to collect his coat.

Tyra rolls her eyes but follows him. “I’m not your girl, Riggins.”  


* * *

The first place they visit is the bakery down the street for breakfast. Tyra talks to the owner, who wishes her a happy birthday and asks who this boy standing next to her is.

“He’s just a friend, Charlie,” she laughs, picking up her order of two croissants from the counter.

The baker, a fat and balding Frenchman, just scoffs and winks.

With croissants in hand, the two walk down Tyra's street to where the concrete meets the water of the Bay. To the right of them is the Golden Gate Bridge, and ahead is miles and miles of blue, blue sea.

"Today, we're going to be tourists," Tyra says with a grin, crumpling up her empty bakery paper bag and throwing it in the trash as she walks along. "That means Pier 39, the Bridge, everything."

"Alright, Collette," Tim says and takes his hand gently in his. To his delight, Tyra doesn't flinch or pull away from his touch and out of the corner of his eye, he _swears_ he can see a glint of a smile.

The next stop is Pier 39 to see the sea lions. Unfortunately, it’s a little late in the morning which means there are tourists _everywhere_. Like honest-to-goodness camera-wielding, colourful-shirt-wearing tourists. There’s still the sea lions basking in the sun, but Tyra knows it’s not as good as it would have been at dawn, when the water is still and the air smells of salt and fish rather than stale coffee and overflowing trash.

Then, they take the tram to Telegraph Hill and the Coit Tower. The view from the top is magical.

Tyra leans her elbows against one of the windows and looks out over the city, Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. She doesn’t hear Tim come up behind her until his chest is pressed lightly against her back and his arms go around her, pulling her head under his chin.

“It’s pretty,” she says, not bothering to wriggle out of his hold like her mind says she should.

“It is,” he replies simply, whispering the words into her hair. “Very pretty.”

* * *

“I’m hungry,” Tim complains, ten minutes into their exploration of the Aquarium. They’re watching an octopus slide slowly across the glass viewing window and Tyra wonders if it’s ever tried breaking out of there before. She watched a YouTube video once that showed an octopus in an aquarium like this escaping from it’s tank. Pretty interesting. Yet, in true Riggins fashion, Tim’s only interested in food.

Tyra glances at her watch. (Michael Kors. Oh, _yeah_.) “It’s, like, 11:30, Tim. Can’t you hold on for another hour?”

“No. Food. Now.”

Tyra can’t help but grin. “You’re such a child. We just had breakfast like, two hours ago.”

“Yeah, I know that. But I’ve got a fast metabolism, baby! You know: in one hole, out the othe-”

She waves her hand in front of his face and squeezes her eyes shut in distaste. “Okay, okay, I get it! We can get lunch. Although at this time of day I think it’s more of a brunch than anything else…”

“What the fuck’s a _brunch_?” Tim asks, a quizzical frown on his face.

Tyra rolls her eyes. “Texans.”

First, pancakes at Mama’s in Washington Square. Then, it’s off to Golden Gate Park.

For the next hour or two, Tim and Tyra sit by a field of poppies on a park bench, watching people go by and laughing over memories from high school. Talking about the dumb shit Tim and Street used to get up to. Matt Saracen pouring Kool Aid all over his pants during lunch. Billy’s “inspirational” speeches before Panthers games. Prom in senior year.

There’s a lull in the conversation then, and Tim sighs, fiddling with the drawstrings on his hooded sweatshirt.

“Why’d you leave?” he says, voice almost a whisper. She would say it wasn’t like him to be soft, but that wouldn’t be true. For as long as she’s known him - almost her whole life - Tyra’s always been able to see past all that greasy hair to a heart that was constantly breaking for the people around him. Yeah, Tim’s soft.

Tyra’s quiet for a moment, then replies, “You know why. I had to get out.” She turns her head towards the boy lying at her side. “I told you, back then. When I left. Do you remember?” she whispers.

He grins devilishly and turns his face towards hers. “I remember that we made out on my couch.”

Tyra rolls her eyes and turns back to look at the sky again. “Shut up.”\

Tim gives a short laugh. “I’m kidding. I remember. You didn’t want to be like your mom and Mindy. You wanted to, I don’t know, have the full college experience or some shit. I think you got it. Do you love it? Like, really love it.”

“I think so. Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“That’s good. That’s real good.” Tim looks up at the sky, watching a seagull fly overhead. “This is one of the best days I’ve had in a while.”

Tyra’s eyes soften. In a quiet voice, she replies, “Me too, Riggins. Me too.”  


* * *

It’s 5 o’clock in the afternoon and they’ve been at the Exploratorium at Pier 15 for the past two and half hours.

Tim’s spent the whole time wide-eyed in wonder at all the cool science exhibits, and Tyra (who’s been here multiple times) just watches him with a small smile on her face.

At the Coloured Shadows exhibit, they get another tourist wearing a Cleveland Indians jersey to take a photo of them on Tim’s camera posing outrageously against the wall. Afterwards, Tim suggests that they get the photo printed right then. There’s a stationery store a little down the road, and Tim insists on paying for the $1 photo print.

“Happy birthday,” he says with a cheeky grin, handing Tyra the freshly printed photograph.

Tim’s eyes are closed in the photo, and Tyra’s pose (jumping up in the air in a High School Musical-esque way) looks strange with the colours, but it’s a memory. And it’s good.

“Thank you, Tim,” she says, smiling up at him. She may not saying it, but she’s thanking him for turning up at her doorstep this morning, too. For not taking no for an answer. For allowing her to feel at home again.

* * *

The sun is beginning to go down by the time they’ve ran down Lombard Street and taken photos from both the bottom and the top.

“I’m hungry again,” Tim complains as they’re walking back to Tim’s truck.

Tyra shrugs. “It’s almost six o’clock. I don’t blame you.”

“Dinner time?” he asks hopefully, walking alongside her down the footpath.

“I think so,” she grins.

There’s a wonderful upmarket pizza place down the road from her apartment which makes a to-die-for margherita.

They’re halfway through dinner when Tyra puts down her pizza crust and crosses her arms over her chest. “How’s Lyla Garrity these days?” Tyra asks, trying to seem casual, like she’s not really interested in the answer.

Tim stares at her for a good while, just thinking. “We don’t talk much anymore,” he finally replies.

Tyra nods her head and continues eating her dinner. They sit in silence for a while, Tim watching Tyra eat while he takes occasional sips of his beer, a thoughtful look in his eyes. Tyra knows that look all too well. It’s a dangerous look.

“How are things with that Clarke kid?” Tim asks.

“Landry?” Tim shrugs in response. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

It’s awkward for a moment, unsaid words and tension in the air between them. Then Tyra sets her fork down, wipes her mouth on a napkin, and leans her elbows on the table, staring straight at Tim.

“Will you ever love me like you loved Lyla?”

She can see the muscles in Tim’s shoulders stiffen, see his blood turn to ice. Only for a moment, then he is as charming as ever. “Will you ever love me like you loved Landry?”

Tyra smiles despite herself and looks down at her plate. “Touche.” She takes another sip of her drink. “It’s not a competition. It’s different. I loved Landry different to the way I loved you. You loved Lyla different to the way you loved me.”

Tim looks back up at Tyra and rests his arms on the table, leaning forward like they’re sharing some special secret. Which, well, they are. “So, you love me, huh?”

She shakes her head and grins. “Loved. Past tense.”

“Uh huh. Right.” He winks.

She laughs softly and touches the hand he rests in front of him. His fingers instinctively curl around hers. “No, I understand,” he says. “We love different people in different ways.”

There’s a sweet silence. The words Tyra then speaks are so quiet that you can barely hear them: “But who do you love more? Lyla or me?”

It’s a loaded question, and Tim knows it. His shoulders do the tense thing again, only this time they don’t relax and he puts his beer down on the table. “You,” he says quietly. “Just you.”  


* * *

Later that night, after the sky is well and truly dark and the San Francisco nightlife is buzzing and loud all around them, the two of them drive to a club a few blocks away that Tyra says has the best DJ in San Fran. Tim doesn’t exactly frequent these types of places - he’s more of a shithole-dive-bar kind of guy - but he’s not gonna pass up the opportunity to knock back a couple more beers.

The club is called Sonny’s and it’s very loud and very purple. It’s pretty much completely packed with young adults getting trashed and dancing up close to one another. But Tyra was right - the DJ _is_ good.

Tyra orders them a few tequila shots to get the night started. “Quick-fucks”, she calls them, “because they fuck you up real quick.” Sounds like Tim’s kind of drink.

They both knock the two shots each back in quick succession, sucking on the limes provided to take away the bitter taste of the alcohol. The DJ starts playing a remix of the song ‘Five More Hours’ and Tim turns to Tyra, grinning widely. “Hey! I actually _know_ this song!” he shouts over the music.

Tyra doesn’t reply, just grins and crooks her fingers at him while she retreats onto the dancefloor. With an equally suggestive smirk, Tim joins her and the throbbing crowd of overly excited and drunk 20-somethings.

Half an hour later, Tim’s had more fruity-tasting alcoholic drinks than his pride would admit, and he and Tyra are dancing closer together than they probably should be, considering the circumstances of their shaky relationship. His hands are on her waist, her arms around his shoulder, and they’re dancing and swaying to the music along with everyone else in the dimly-lit club.

Tim can tell she does this - going to clubs, dancing like this, making out with boys that aren’t him - on the regular, and although he tries not to think about all the other guys she’s taken out on dates like this, he just wants to be as close to her as he can.

Tyra’s eyes are closed and she leans her head back with an open-mouthed smile, exposing her neck, and Tim’s heart almost stops for a second. Time slows down and it’s just the dark purple light, shadows dancing all around them, and Tyra’s smile and Tyra’s skin and Tyra’s dark hair flowing out behind her as she sways to the beat. It’s only half a second but it feels like a lifetime that he’s watching her before she brings her head back up and smiles at him. She tucks her head into the little dip where Tim’s neck meets his shoulder, and he can fucking _feel_ her smile as her lips ghost over his skin.

"What do you want, Tyra?" Tim asks, voice, soft, nose inches away from hers and hot breath on her cheek. She normally wouldn’t be able to hear him over the noise but their faces are so close, it’s not hard.

"A better job. To travel around the world. A less expensive apartment rent. Free Netflix."

She closes her eyes but swears she can hear his smile as he talks. "Tyra. Tell me what you really want." His voice is nothing more than a whisper and it chills her to the bone. The air feels electric around them.

Tyra swallows and sighs. "You. Just you."

And that's it. The turning point, the fire alarm, the ding-dong chime of 12 o'clock bells. Something just breaks in both their minds, like the flooding of a dam that's had so many years to fill up with rushing water. It's like something finally clicks, and then- then everything just falls into place.

They’re only moderately buzzed (it takes a lot for either of them to get drunk now), but Tyra reckons it’s enough to warrant a few potentially bad decisions on her part.

So she lets Tim press her up against the brick wall of an alleyway on their way out of the club, lets him kiss her as much as he wants, lets his hands explore her, searching out every curve and crevice like he used to. Updating the map of her body that’s been in his mind since they were fourteen.

She lets him take her back to her apartment, lets his hand brush up against her thigh on the ride home in his truck. Lets him kiss her in the hallway until she can barely breathe.

“You promised me you- you promised you wouldn’t do anything stupid,” she says, breathless as he kisses curves down her neck. “You said you wouldn’t.”

“This is stupid, huh?” he says against her skin, moving his hands to rest against the small of her back. “Is this a bad idea?”

“Yes-” she says, then his fingers manage to unclip her bra and his head dips lower. “But it’s good,” she breathes and smiles, hands going up to rest in his hair.

“That’s what I thought,” he mumbles and her fingers clench in his hair.

(There’s no more talking between them that night.)  


* * *

The sunlight cutting through the blinds in the morning is what wakes Tyra up. That, and the weight of Tim’s arm flopped over her bare chest that restricts her breathing.

 _Fuck_.

She does a double take, looks at Tim Riggins’ messed up hair splayed out on the pillow, lifts up the covers to find neither of them are wearing clothes. _Double_ fuck.

Memories of the night before start returning to her tired mind, fragmented and blurry. Maybe she was more drunk than she thought?

There’s dinner, and there’s dancing, and there’s Tim’s smile and his hands on her skin and there’s cotton sheets and shot glasses and hearts full.

Tyra lies there for a few seconds, trying to breathe and figure things out. On one hand, this is probably the worst thing that could happen to her. It doesn’t help anything. Doesn’t help that fact that after all these years she’s obviously still not over Tim Riggins. She should have told him to leave as soon as he showed up at her door.

But on the other hand…

Tyra looks over at the body beside her. She smiles. He looks like a boy when he sleeps. Long hair mussed, mouth slightly open, breathing softly. His brow is relaxed - no furrows or wrinkles like he gets when he’s thinking too hard.

She considers hightailing it out of her apartment, leaving a note and hoping that he leaves before she’s back. Then his eyelids flutter open, he groans softly, and looks at her with sleepy eyes. Her heart skips a beat and it feels like someone’s got a hand closed around her throat because she can’t fucking breathe with him looking at her like that. Like she’s the one person in the world he’s always wanted to wake up to like this. Not that they haven’t done this before, in previous years. But this is different. They’re not in high school anymore. They’re not hormonal teenagers who just want to fuck like bunnies to get it out of their systems. There’s feelings involved, real feelings, and actual mature life decisions to be made. Just fucking around with old friends doesn’t work anymore when you’re 24 going on 25 and you’re meant to have your shit together.

“Hey,” he says, voice heavy with sleep. She tries to swallow but her throat is dry and the saliva won’t go down.

“Hey yourself,” she says, voice a little shaky. Something she internally beats herself up about.

“So. This is kind of weird.” Tim says with a little grin. “Haven’t done this with you in a while.”

“Yeah. Me, uh, me either. I mean-”

He chuckles, a deep sound that vibrates through the bed and through her body. Tim opens his mouth to speak but Tyra beats him to it, cutting him off.

“I think you should leave.”

“Now? It’s like 7 o’clock in the morning.”

She doesn’t say anything in reply to that, just turns on her back to stare at the ceiling and tries to swallow the ever-growing lump in her throat.

Tim sighs. “Okay.” He slowly gets up out of bed, puts his underwear and pants back on, starts shrugging on his shirt. “Happy birthday, Collette. I missed you,” he says before walking out the door.

“I missed you, too,” she whispers into the dim morning light of her bedroom, only after she can hear his truck start from outside.

A single tear escapes from her eye and she quickly wipes it away. Tyra Collette doesn’t need anyone. She’s made this life in San Francisco all on her own. She doesn’t need anyone to help her. And she sure as hell doesn’t need Tim Riggins.  


Two weeks pass since the night of her 24th birthday, and Tyra doesn’t feel any more at peace with her decision of pushing away Tim (yet again) to ‘protect’ herself than she did when he left her apartment that morning.

He’s left her a few voicemail messages in that time, and she hasn’t opened any of them. She’s scared what she’ll do if she does.

Then, one day, after a shitty shift at work, she comes home in need of some comfort. For some reason, that comfort comes in the form of playing back Tim’s old voicemail messages. The first two are pretty general: _hey, how are you?_ and _I’m sorry I left so quick_. The third, however, is an entirely different story.

“ _Hey Tyra. Me again. I just called to say I miss you. I know you won’t pick up the phone because that’s not how this works with you. But I know you’re listenin’. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t fight you to stay, because I really wanted to. I’ve missed you a lot. Anyway. I know you and I know that you don’t like doing this with me. This- I don’t know. Back and forth kinda thing. Where we break up and fight and then have really damn good makeup sex and then break up again a few weeks later. I mean, it’s been almost seven fuckin’ years since we broke up and you left for college.”_ She hears him sigh and there’s a long pause before he speaks again. _“Please don’t be a stranger. I dunno if I can take another six.”_ The message stops playing then, and a tinny voice tells her that there are no more messages to display.

Tyra squeezes her eyes shut, thinking furiously, and when she opens them, she knows what she’s going to do.

One day later, she’s told her work that she’s going on holiday for a while, and packs a bag full of clothes.

Tyra almost panics when she finally gets into her car and shuts the door. She’s doing this. She’s actually voluntarily going back to Texas and Tim Riggins.

_Who do you love more?_

_You. Just you._

She takes a deep breath, thinks _fuck it_ , and starts the car.


End file.
